"His name is Michael," Olivia said, barely audible.
Jen nodded and left it there.
Later, the house had gone quiet. Most of the teenagers were upstairs. The TV in the living room played to no one.
Jen had the couch to herself, laptop balanced on her knees.
Her editor's email was still there, still unanswered. Four days old now. Just checking in on the draft, no pressure, but we're coming up on...
She typed a sentence. Deleted it.
A summer away—that's what she'd told herself this was for. Fresh perspective, her agent had said, as if the problem were geography.
She thought about standing in the shallows that morning—the water around her ankles, the horizon line, how small it had made everything else feel.
She typed another sentence. Then another. Read them both.
Left them there.
Two sentences. She'd take it. She closed the laptop and sat with that small victory until her wine was gone.
In the converted sunroom at the back of the house, the lights were off. Max was already asleep, or pretending to be. Ethan lay on his bed with his earbuds in, something low and steady playing—not loud enough to hear the words, just the pulse of it.
He'd checked his phone twice since dinner. Nothing from any of the six places he'd applied. Not even a text. Sophie walked past a restaurant once and got an interview the next day. He'd walked in, filled out the applications, and heard nothing back.
Through the thin walls, he'd heard his mother's footsteps earlier—heard them stop outside the sunroom door and wait there, long enough that he knew she wanted to knock.
She didn't. That was what got him. She wanted to—he could practically feel it—but she didn't.
He didn't know if that made it better or worse.
His phone buzzed. His dad. Hey bud, give me a call when you get a chance. Want to talk about the wedding stuff.
Ethan read it then dropped the phone on the mattress beside him.
The music kept playing.
He closed his eyes and tried not to think about any of it.
By eleven, the noise had faded to murmurs.
The market lights along the pool fence swayed in a breeze that had come up off the ocean. Inside, the TV flickered blue and low.
On the rooftop, Meredith finished her wine and set the glass on the arm of her chair.
A whole summer. She'd made a chore chart, and nobody had refused to follow it—yet. She had a daughter leaving in September and a husband back home running retirement numbers and her oldest friends all under the same roof, bringing their messes with them. They always had. That was the deal.
The first stars were out, bright and steady over the water.
She thought about what Olivia had said at the beach. What Carrie hadn't said. The way Lori kept watching Ethan like she could pull him back to her through sheer attention.
Everyone had brought something with them this summer. Suitcases and beach chairs and the kind of baggage that didn't fit in a car.
Somewhere below, she heard Lily laugh—sudden and easy—followed by Sophie, then Ava. The three of them finding something funny at eleven o'clock on the second night of vacation.
Meredith stayed where she was.
Tomorrow they'd figure out groceries. Tomorrow Sophie had her interview. Tomorrow Ethan would still be checking his phone, and Olivia would answer Dan's texts or she wouldn't, and Carrie would check her spreadsheet again and try not to let it show.
